


The Case Archive

by Pyjamapants



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dub-con (more like dishonest sex within established relationship), Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamapants/pseuds/Pyjamapants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While trying to locate cases with deaths caused by Moriarty, Sherlock finds a file that could change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case Archive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



Sherlock couldn't feel his fingers as they rubbed along the crease of the case folder.

For one, the Yard seemed to have taken 'cold case' rather literally. The basement file room was unheated. If John were there, he'd have pointed out the coincidence and laughed. Well, he'd have laughed in the midst of complaining, at length, about the unnecessary discomfort.

But John wasn't there.

Something Sherlock never thought he'd be thankful for.

Sherlock couldn't feel his brain, either. Though that was due less to the cold and more to—

He sank onto the stack of boxes Lestrade's clerk had delivered to the room. Suspicious deaths, dating from the mid-nineties. Half a room full of accidents and suicides to supplement the cold cases.

Sherlock blinked, quelling the urge to shake off the figurative frost that had settled inside his head.

God, this wasn't _like_ him. Evidence, case files didn't make his brain go offline. Didn't jettison his mind off to think about big, amorphous questions he couldn't put subjects and verbs to. Ugly questions he didn't want to contemplate.

His brain had never been this disconnected ever… well, not when there hadn't been a syringe involved.

The edge of the file had worn an indent into his index finger now.

He started re-reading the file again – and since _when_ did he have to re-read files? He always simply scanned them directly into memory, absorbing all the details in one pass as he sorted the evidence into the appropriate slot in the mind map he always carried around.

But the facts in _this_ file refused to fasten themselves to the appropriate spots in his mind. It was as though facts tried to latch on, but the connectors were wrong. Data just slid off.

He closed his eyes, trying to force his vision, if not his mind, blank. Three breaths. In. Out. His mind was crowded. Rummaging through cold cases all morning, scribbling notes on the many files that weren't Moriarty related but where the police had missed something obvious. Those files were irrelevant right now, but that data was still sticking, still jumbling things up inside his head. Stray facts still floating around in case they formed a pattern.

His eyes opened and flicked over the file a third time.

Victim found in ditch on the path back from his local. Cause of death: head wound. Local police identified half-buried rock as matching head wound.

Sherlock squinted at the grainy photographs. Nothing directly contradicted the police summary. For once.

The police had been suspicious due to the sizable insurance policy taken out by the victim’s son the week before the _accident_.

Surely the name was just a coincidence.

Sherlock cringed even as he thought the word _coincidence_. How many times had he barked at Lestrade, at Anderson, at John that a coincidence was _never_ just a coincidence?

And how many times had he and John argued over the fact that Sherlock couldn't give in to emotions—wouldn’t. Couldn't allow himself to feel concern or form attachments because it was bound to cloud his judgment?

And here he was, mind at a standstill, crashed out on a makeshift sofa of archive boxes, unable to make it through the end of a simple eight page police report because of his _feelings._

He tossed the file onto the pile he'd accumulated over the course of the day, the ones he hadn't immediately shoved back with an eye roll or grunt of dissatisfaction at what assorted local police departments considered suspicious.

He reached for another case file, flipping it open. He was on the third page before he realised that none of the information had registered, his mind still tucked away in the last file.

His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to rip apart the file in his hand. This was intolerable, this distraction.

He might as well leave the Yard for the day. Perhaps the cab ride home would clear his mind.

Sherlock eyed the stack of files he'd accumulated.

Lestrade had given him clearance to take the files home. But did he want to take this one?

No. No, he couldn't take it home.

He grabbed the file and forced it into the back of the current box.

His phone chirped, and he knew without looking that it was John.

 _off work at six. we still having a night in or have you dumped me for case files?_

Sherlock stared at his phone.

His thumbs responded by reflex.

 _I'm done here. I've completed a preliminary pass on an adequate number of files._

He hit send and panicked. Had he sounded normal enough? Adequate. Did he normally use the word 'adequate'? Should he have kept their date? Yes. Yes, if he hadn't John would have insisted on joining him, poring through the files with him.

John responded before Sherlock's thoughts could devolve further.

 _bugger. that means it'll be me watching telly by myself while you wander around in your head all night._

Sherlock could hear John's fondness, even in his complaint, and he found himself smiling as he replied.

 _You're mistaken if you think I've ever watched that waste of technology with you. I'm in the mood for curry._

 _of course your highness._

Sherlock smiled as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Surely he couldn't have got this wrong.

He slid the box lid into place, pulling his mobile out again to take a photo. Given his current incapacity for basic reading comprehension, he didn't trust himself to remember where he'd left off when he returned tomorrow.

Scooping up the stack of files he wanted to peruse in detail, Sherlock left the frigid records room behind, physically at least, and climbed the stairs to exit New Scotland Yard, the usual noise and bustle a muffled din around him.

The cab ride home passed in a grey blur despite the sun beating down on the city.

221 Baker Street was quiet when he opened the front door. The new tenants in 221c were silent, as always. Best neighbours he'd ever had. Pity they were Mycroft's security minions, masquerading as a newly married couple, a ruse that surely fooled no one. Mrs Hudson's flat was quiet too. Thursday. Her afternoon out. The smell of the morning's baking still lingered in the hallway.

Sherlock unlocked the door to the flat, his eyes sweeping over every surface, examining his home as if it might be a crime scene. His daily routine now that Moriarty had gone to ground.

And yet today the flat felt different. _He_ felt different. Removed. Like the flat belonged to someone else. Some other Sherlock Holmes. And certainly some other John Watson.

This was all ridiculous. He, Sherlock Holmes, was being ridiculous.

He dropped the files onto the coffee table and grabbed his laptop before folding himself onto the sofa, the laptop perched on his thighs.

John would be home in forty-three minutes. No, he'd stop for the takeaway. Always argued that he didn't want to wait the decades – hours, John, really – it would take to deliver. Home in fifty minutes then.

Plenty of time for Sherlock to deduce this. To make sense of it. Figure out what he'd missed.

Because he'd clearly missed _something_.

Sherlock opened the hidden folder where he kept John's information. Not that it really _required_ hiding. John never touched his computer, always going on about honouring Sherlock's privacy, even if Sherlock didn't honour his.

He held his breath as he opened John's military record.

Sherlock exhaled the last traitorous molecules of hope bottled up inside his lungs.

The dates lined up, assuring the name wasn't just a coincidence, guaranteeing that it wasn't one of the other John Watsons in the Army.

No. Not a coincidence at all. ¬

It was Sherlock's John Watson whose father had bled out in that ditch in Stockbridge. Sherlock's John Watson who'd taken out the insurance policy in his father's name, leaving his mother as beneficiary.

Sherlock's John Watson who was the son who'd shipped out to Afghanistan for his third tour of duty six days after the _accident_ and was conveniently unavailable for in-person, follow-up questioning. The same John Watson who'd been interrogated by a superior officer between shifts at the front line unit in Kandahar.

His mind was slow to process, digesting the information letter by letter, as if it were a complex theory rather than simple facts in a case, stumbling over questions he never would have normally asked. Or had the interviewing officer heard real tears in John’s voice? Had he accurately interpreted John’s sadness and regret as grief and sorrow?

Had John killed his father? And why was it such a shock to Sherlock that he might have? Sherlock had barely known John for a full day when John had killed someone. Although that was different, wasn't it?

Why was it different? Why did it even matter?

Besides, if John were a _serial_ killer, then he'd have used a gun on his father. Although that would be far too obvious a cause of death for the father of a military man. And John was intelligent enough not to be obvious. Well, not to be obvious about something he was trying to conceal. After all, John's usual mode of engagement was 'obvious.' Or was his usual mode just a clever mask?

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his heart skidded to a stop. John stood directly above him.

"Jesus, Sherlock. I've called your name five times. You must have found _something_ down at the Yard today."

Sherlock's mouth opened, but words failed to exit.

"Yes, yes, I'm being obvious," John said, gesturing to the stack of files on the coffee table.

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut.

"Now budge over. I've got the curry dished out."

Sherlock did as told, pausing mid-budge as he wondered whether he ought to have protested, whether he'd normally have done so.

John handed Sherlock his plate and settled next to him on the sofa, his leg pressed against Sherlock's. Sherlock leaned into the contact, his body still luxuriating in sensation, in the newness of this relationship between them.

Could he give this up if it turned out John was culpable? Turn John over to the Yard? Could he survive John's look of betrayal? Could he survive the loss of _John_?

Sherlock nearly gagged around his forkful of curry.

It had never mattered to him whether a crime was premeditated or a crime of passion. Well, it had mattered in that the premeditated ones were far more intriguing. Individuals committing crimes of passion were much more likely to slip up and make the sort of mistakes even Anderson could detect.

But it was critical now, this distinction.

Jefferson Hope had been an intervention, a necessary act to save Sherlock. But his father, if he'd been responsible – and _why_ was Sherlock stuck stumbling over all of this? Why couldn't he just figure out whether John had been responsible or not? Though surely he _wasn't_. He couldn't be – would mean John saw murder as a solution.

It didn't agree with the John who berated Sherlock for not caring about _innocent_ people strapped to bombs.

But maybe that was it. John's father hadn't been innocent. History of domestic abuse? With John shipping off he wouldn't have been around to intervene, to treat his mother after the fact. But, no, unlikely… John hadn't lived at home for years.

Would innocence be the deciding factor for John? Was his morality so nimble? Surely not.

Maybe he'd discovered something about his father upon his return from his second tour of duty. Infidelity? John wouldn't take a betrayal lightly.

So John, what, crouched in a hidden spot along the road between his parents' house and the local pub? Was it just the one night, or had he waited several? No, he couldn't have done.

John laughed at something on telly, his short barks of breath reverberating through the sofa cushions.

Sherlock shivered, immediately cursing his inability to contain his physical response.

"Are you cold? Come here. Let me warm you up." John tugged the plate of curry out of his hand. "You ate half. Better than usual. Nearly a member of the clean-plate club." He stacked the plate on top of his own on the coffee table and shuffled along the sofa, stopping when his back hit the arm rest. He spread his legs and beckoned Sherlock to sit between them.

What curry Sherlock had managed to consume protested the idea. But he couldn't decline, could he? John would know something was wrong. And he absolutely had to conceal this from John until he'd figured out what had happened and how he was going to respond.

Sherlock settled between John's legs, worrying that his body language would reveal his thoughts. But his body eased against John as soon as John's arms wrapped around him.

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block out both the perpetually obnoxious television and the horrifying feeling of his own duplicity. Lying in his partner's arms while attempting to deduce whether or not he'd committed patricide. As John agreed and reminded him frequently, relationships were certainly not his area. But, even to him, this was clearly, obviously wrong.

If it weren't for John's arms curled around him, John's hands clasped across his chest, Sherlock would run from the flat, seeking the comfort of London's streets instead, sharpening his mind, providing him with the distance he so obviously needed.

Sherlock startled as John's lips trailed down his neck.

"I'm sorry," John said, with not a hint of remorse in his voice. "Am I disturbing your thinking?"

Sherlock's head jerked towards the television. Surely the programme wasn't over yet.

"Commercial break." The words rumbled against Sherlock's throat, and he couldn't even swallow, much less breathe or speak as he felt John's tongue against that spot on his neck that always paralysed him. He was caught in a maelstrom of doubt and arousal and genuine affection and guilt, and God, he was going to flinch every time he heard that blasted Aquafresh jingle.

John's kisses tapered off as his programme returned, ending with a press of lips behind Sherlock's earlobe that made Sherlock shudder. John laughed, his breath skittering over Sherlock's skin.

With John's attention returned to the television, Sherlock could focus again. Nearly. It was virtually impossible with the arousal surging through him. His blood was forsaking him, heart rate elevated, arteries dilated to cause an erection he did not want.

The television droned on in the background as he scrambled to reorganise his thoughts, mentally tripping and cursing as he stumbled back through things he'd already thought, conclusions he'd already reached.

He thought for a moment about asking John, about laying all the facts in front of him as he would for any other case. But John excelled at reading emotions Sherlock didn't even realise he felt, much less exposed, though John assured him it was subtle, only readable by those who knew him exceedingly well.

And John would, if he were innocent, be crushed by Sherlock's betrayal or, if he weren't innocent… Sherlock didn't know what John might do if he weren't. He had insufficient data. Surely he wouldn't react violently. No, no, he wouldn't. Of course, he wouldn't. Not John. Not _his_ John.

His John whose left hand was stroking across Sherlock's chest as he watched his programme, pausing occasionally to rub a thumb across Sherlock's nipple. This was agonizing. And, worse, it was going to be one of those nights John wouldn't take no for an answer.

Not that Sherlock had ever wanted to say no, had _never_ actually said no. And if he did now… no, definitely too late. Should have pulled back earlier, invented some experiment or another to ward John away from him. Should have avoided the physical proximity altogether. Couldn't say no now; John would _know_ something was wrong. Sherlock needed more time to figure this out, more time to process.

But John's determined hands were making logical thought, any thought, impossible. A groan escaped Sherlock as he flinched, John's thumb and forefinger tugging Sherlock's nipple.

"Mmm, I love it when you play hard to get. That massive brain of yours is all wrapped up in that stack of files you've brought home, but your body can't deny it wants me."

He couldn't breathe. It was… surely just his guilty conscience – conscience? When had that happened – projecting additional meaning onto John's words? "I thought you were determined to watch your awful programme tonight," Sherlock finally managed to choke out.

"Hmm. Television's boring."

Why, why, why did John have to have this epiphany now? "Never thought I'd hear you say – " Sherlock gasped as John's hand dipped below Sherlock's waistband, fingers tracing along his hipbone. Sherlock was dizzy. It was all far too much, too overwhelming, this new data he had, coupled with the sensations he didn't want – not now, please, not now – but was unable to ignore.

John's lips dropped to his neck again. Sherlock moaned. This hurt. It actually hurt, the arousal and the doubt and fear and… he needed…

"I need…" he said, before he could stop the words from tumbling out.

He could feel John's lips curve against his neck, and he wanted to crawl out of his skin and run off somewhere, anywhere, so he could collect his thoughts.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" John said, fingertips edging closer to Sherlock's penis, teasing him.

He needed… away. No, not acceptable. He needed… stop. No. Even if Sherlock could stop this, they were both so aroused that any ensuing discussion would escalate to an argument within seconds. He needed… he needed this to be done so he could think again.

"Bedroom. Take me to the bedroom, John," he said, hoping that John would mistake the pleading tone in his voice and his racing heart and his short, panting breath as desperation and arousal.

John's fingers gripped his skin, pressing into hip and sternum, and Sherlock felt John's cock pressing against his back as John pulled him tighter, closer. "God, I love it when you beg like that," John said, his voice hot, heavy, humid against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock wondered for a moment if perhaps this wasn't a wise idea, luring John into bed so that Sherlock could clear his mind, so that he could consider John's culpability. But it was always necessary to avoid tipping off a suspect, and while the word made Sherlock's stomach twist, he couldn't not use the term simply because he didn't like it. Simply because _John_ was the suspect.

But surely the local police had felt there was due reason to end the investigation. God, was he even listening to how stupid he sounded?

John had broken him. Completely broken him.

John nudged Sherlock forward on the sofa, shuffling out from behind him and standing. John twisted, undoing the kinks that had lodged in his back. And then he looked at Sherlock and smiled, that lopsided smile that reached up to his eyes. He extended a hand to help Sherlock up and said, "Come on then, gorgeous. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve you. I must have been especially good in a past life."

It would be enough for Sherlock to discover that John hadn't been especially bad in this life. No, no, he needed to be objective. Sherlock's heart, mind, one of them, both of them felt like it was split in two. He loved John. John loved him, and despite his constant whingeing to the contrary, he repeatedly claimed he didn't want Sherlock to change. Would John even want Sherlock if he were so… easily compromised? If his thoughts were so easily cast into disarray?

John tugged him up from the sofa towards the bedroom. Sherlock stopped John, pressed him against the door frame the way John liked. They kissed for the first time that evening, John's mouth hot and eager, sucking on Sherlock's tongue, filling Sherlock's mind with white noise, punctuated with flickers of what he was _supposed_ to be thinking about.

Sherlock wrenched his mouth away from John's and pressed a line of kisses along the edge of John's jaw, underneath his chin, down his throat. His fingers pulled at the buttons on John's shirt. "Yes, Sherlock, God, yes." Sherlock shifted, pressing a leg between John's, and grinned against John's throat as John rocked towards him.

The rush of blood in his ears, the vice around his chest making breathing difficult, the demanding pulse of his erection began to recede now that Sherlock was free of John's attentions. He exhaled against John's skin, gathering his thoughts back together again.

John panted hoarsely, head thrown back as Sherlock scrolled through his mental list of things John liked in bed, a list he hadn't been aware he'd made until now. He wasn't normally an attentive lover, which should play in his favour, but he would need to concentrate, focus if he was going to see this through so he could get his mind under control again. He couldn't risk this becoming one of those three-hour sessions where John reduced him to a babbling mess, blubbering out whatever words came to mind.

His tongue slid across John's nipple, and John moaned, grabbing at Sherlock's head when he started to pull away. Sherlock took a moment to congratulate himself on having got the direction, the pressure, the little flick of the tip just right.

Sherlock mentally cycled through a half dozen other techniques, mapping out a plan for winding John up enough that _he_ would be the one begging and when Sherlock finally asked, he'd fuck Sherlock through the mattress without stopping to spend thirty minutes winding Sherlock up. If he were very good, perhaps John would fall asleep afterwards and Sherlock could return to the sofa to think.

There was some way to figure this out. There had to be. The scene of the accident – crime scene, he chastised – was surely destroyed by now. Three years exposed to the elements…

John was pulling at Sherlock's clothes, his fingers clumsy, desperate to move things along. But if they moved to the bed now, John would shift the focus to Sherlock. Sherlock worked his way back to John's neck as he unbuckled John's belt, undoing buttons and yanking the zip down. He slid his hands around John's waist, slipping them under the waistband of his pants and clutching his arse, pulling John flush against him.

John's hands abandoned Sherlock's shirt, and he clung desperately to Sherlock. "Fuck, you're… amazing tonight… so hot… want to kiss you again."

His kisses were sloppy and inarticulate, hardly arousing. Sherlock steered him away from the door frame, rejoicing in John's moan when the back of his legs hit the bed. Sherlock tugged off John's trousers as he pushed him back onto the mattress.

"What are you…Oh, fuck," John groaned as Sherlock kissed and licked his way to John's hip, teasing, delaying contact.

Sherlock had done this to John twice, not the most statistically reliable sample of data. Though the techniques John favoured himself should be evidence enough. And with the way John reacted as Sherlock's lips and tongue traced along the shaft of John's penis, it didn't seem Sherlock would have to be particularly skilled.

Which was good since it proved more distracting than expected to have John's penis in his mouth.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief around John when his thighs began tensing. John pushed him away, propping himself on his elbows, panting, gasping for air. "Don't want to come yet," he explained when he found his voice again, as if Sherlock, in any state of mind, wouldn't have known.

"You're amazing, Sherlock. Hadn't realised you'd been paying attention." He smiled at Sherlock, his features warm, pliant. "And you're still dressed. Need to fix that."

"Get me ready, John. I want you inside me," Sherlock said, pulling his half-unbuttoned shirt overhead and tearing at his belt. He stripped off his trousers and pants, watching John's eyes roving over him.

John grabbed one of the bottles of lube from the night stand, slicking up two fingers. John always applied lube to three fingers, cursing when he had stop to apply more, the lube gone sticky from the drawn out foreplay. Good, he was too anxious to tease Sherlock open with three.

"You're so tight today," John said as his index finger dipped inside Sherlock. "And you're so eager. Better hurry this along so you don't come without me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, closed his mind against the signals his body was attempting to send. It was easier to disconnect than he'd feared. Apparently lips were the issue. Contact through lips, his or John's, completed some sort of electrical circuit within his body that made concentration impossible. Luckily, John's lips were occupied rattling off observations about Sherlock's body. Boring observations he'd made dozens of times before.

It was… rather paradoxical to contemplate the possible guilt of the person who'd volunteered as your moral compass, the one who consistently nagged Sherlock about considering other people's feelings before blurting out whatever came to mind. At least that restraint had been useful today. If this had happened when they'd first moved in together, Sherlock would have immediately confronted John, without regard for potential consequences, without considering how John would feel about the accusation.

And he surely would have lost John if this had happened then. His words would have been sharp, incisive, crafted to cut directly to the truth.

He couldn't go back to life before John. Boring. Lonely. Less efficient. Somehow less brilliant without John by his side.

So that was decided. John's culpability didn't matter, didn't affect what Sherlock would do. He'd destroy the file once he was done with it. The police were all the more the fools for having given him access to the originals. Idiots. But at least John wouldn't be bothered by future inquiries.

 

He brought his attention back to his body. John’s hands were still moving over him, inside him. Surely he was prepared by now. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. Five minutes. Certainly enough time.

"I'm ready, John. Now," he said, relieved that his voice sounded out of breath.

Perpetually motivated by sanitary concerns regardless of location, John withdrew his fingers and ducked to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes again.

It was there, just beyond the edges of his mind. He could almost see the answer.

Dammit, he needed the file again. Should have brought it home with him.

If he looked at the medical examiner's report again, surely he could determine how deeply the rock had penetrated the skull, could determine the angle of entry, whether John's father had fallen, had been pushed, had lain there while someone else gripped his head and bashed it against the rock.

But… surely John hadn't, wasn't capable…

John who was crawling back onto the bed, in between Sherlock's thighs. "God, you're beautiful," he said, hands planted on the mattress on either side of Sherlock's head.

No, John couldn't have. Not _those_ hands.

Sherlock couldn't breathe. The proximity of John's hands as he lowered to kiss Sherlock. It should have caused fear, worry, anxiety over what those hands could have done. But there was none. Only trust. Assurance. Belief.

He _trusted_ John. With everything. His life, his heart. How could he have doubted John? But he hadn’t _really_ doubted John. Hadn't wanted to. He couldn’t.

Because John… John trumped everything. _Everything_. Reason. Deduction. Fact. John was more important than all of it. How could he have ever considered otherwise?

Sherlock was aware his pulse was racing, his hands sweaty against the sheets.

He should be calm now. Shouldn't be tense, shouldn't be panicking as John shifted back on his knees, pressed himself inside Sherlock.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Relax," John said, voice tense, brow twisted, worry knotting his features. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. No, he couldn't have. John couldn't have. No. Just the thought of it. No. But what if he had?

"I can't do this."

John's body went rigid against him, on top of him. "Sherlock? What on earth?"

"I can't… Please get off of me, John," he begged.

John climbed off of Sherlock and lay down on the bed beside him. "Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John, observing the concern embedded in John's features, the love in John's hand as he reached for Sherlock, hovering over him, unsure whether he should touch or not. God, John was so tentative with him sometimes, treated him so delicately.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me. What the hell is wrong? Did you… what, did you just figure something out from the files you read today?"

Sherlock let out a strangled sob. John pulled Sherlock into his arms before Sherlock could protest.

"God, whatever it is, Sherlock, we'll figure it out. Is it Moriarty?"

"It's not… No, it's not Moriarty."

Sherlock felt John's body relax against him. Sherlock took a deep breath. Once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had to get all of it out of his mind, let it spill across their bed.

John was going to hate him, regardless of whether he'd been responsible or not. And he couldn't have been. Couldn't. Not that it mattered. But if Sherlock could make him stay, make him listen until Sherlock got through to the end…

"Sherlock," John prompted, voice low and gentle, his hand rubbing an arc along Sherlock's back.

Sherlock inhaled again before blurting out, "Per my request, Lestrade gathered cold case files from outside London as well as any deaths ruled suicide or accidental."

John's hand paused mid-arc. Was he suspicious? Did he know what Sherlock had found? Sherlock hurried on, "I found your father's file."

Sherlock could feel every muscle in John's body go tense, could feel John's pulse hammering as he pushed Sherlock away. He wound his arms around John, clutching him closer, tighter.

"I've been turning the evidence over and over in my head all evening. I can't _think_ , John. I can't figure it out. It doesn't fit with what I know about you. I can't make it fit. "

John inhaled, his ribs pressing against Sherlock's arms. Sherlock _had_ to continue. "I don't… I don't want the data to fit, John, but it doesn't matter. I need you for me. I need you for my cases. London needs you to be with me. It doesn't matter if you were responsible."

"Let me go, Sherlock." John's voice was cold, hardened, and Sherlock couldn't read his expression, not with his head buried against John's neck.

"No, I can't. You'll leave. Don't leave. Please don't leave. I can't… "

"I'm not going to leave."

"You were planning to. You moved your leg so that you could launch yourself off the mattress the instant I let go of you."

John's leg flopped back to the bed.

"I'm not going to leave." The edge was gone from his voice, leaving fatigue in its wake.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He wasn't ready to face John yet, to look him in the eyes and discuss whatever it was that had happened that night three years ago. And Sherlock still wasn't sure, couldn't read from John's body language what his role had been in his father’s death.

"Sherlock, would you stop letting everything spin around inside your head and just talk to me?"

"I never really believed you were responsible. I never wanted to think you'd done it."

"But you still thought it," John said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well, it's my job to think it, to consider every angle until I've eliminated the wrong ones. But I couldn't think at all. I couldn't deduce anything. I couldn't even consider the possibility you'd done it for more than a second at a time. I was… I couldn't think." John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock continued, "I didn't doubt you, John. I didn't. I couldn't. Not _really_. Every time I tried to be objective. I couldn't."

He knew he was repeating himself, and even he could hear the desperation in his voice. But he _had_ to make John understand. He took gasping breaths to attempt to calm his agitated, shaking body. Everything tumbled out of his mouth. How much he hated himself for his doubt of John and his simultaneous disgust that he couldn't set aside his emotions and figure it out. His near refusal to even consider any information that would prove John culpable.

At last, after minutes, hours, John exhaled, tension draining out of his body. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock again. "Shut up. I believe you."

Sherlock felt his body collapse into the mattress.

"I'm still pissed off at you, but I believe you."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

"Do you even know what you're sorry about?"

"Everything. All of it. It doesn't matter."

John let out a huff of frustration, untangling his arms and pushing Sherlock. Sherlock could read annoyance and hurt in his expression. "I can't believe you lay there on the sofa, letting me feel you up while you were thinking about all of this. You let me bring you into the bedroom, Sherlock!"

"I didn't want you to know what I was trying to figure out," Sherlock said, his voice still thin, desperate, his eyes scanning every detail of John's expression.

"Well, brilliant job there. And how am I supposed to feel, knowing that the most generous… the most attentive you've ever been in bed was while you were trying to deduce whether or not I'd killed my own father?"

John paused for a moment, glaring at Sherlock, his mouth tense. "Which I didn't do, by the way. Not directly."

Sherlock could think of nothing to say. He was relieved, of course he was relieved. Relieved to know his trust wasn't misplaced, that his judgement of John's character wasn't warped. Apparently, John could see Sherlock's relief, disappointment washing over his face before his expression twisted into disgust. "Just tell me you didn't get off on the idea that I'd done it."

"Oh, God, no." Sherlock was surprised to find his stomach turning at the thought. "No, I just had to concentrate on… keeping you occupied."

He faltered, not sure whether he was digging himself deeper or not. He opened his mouth to apologize, but John cut him off. "I know. You're sorry. You can make it up to me by _keeping me occupied_ later."

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled the last shaky breath of fear and anxiety. There was going to be a later. He hadn't screwed this up irretrievably. Somehow, his relationship with John was going to survive this, which truly defied any logic, but it _fit_ – finally something fit – that John would remain loyal to him, to them.

The mattress tilted, and Sherlock felt John's lips against his forehead. "I told you I wasn't leaving, you idiot. We're not done talking about this, but I'm not leaving you, Sherlock, not in any sense of the word."

Sherlock has done nothing to deserve John. Nothing to deserve such steadfast devotion. And there was _nothing_ that could make him leave John now.

Words, emotions tangled in his throat, and he didn't trust himself to speak. He pulled John back into his arms, John's pulse still fluttering under his fingertips, still anxious.  
 

"Go ahead. Ask whatever you want," John said, voice resigned, defeated, but his body relaxing against Sherlock's. "I can tell you have a million questions whirling around in your head. But we're never talking about this again. It… just thinking about it dredges up too much."

Even in the face of Sherlock's doubt –no amount of babbling covered up the fact that he _had_ doubted John – John trusted him. Somehow this was even more terrifying than the earlier doubt and confusion.

"You said, 'not directly' earlier. What do you mean, 'not directly'?"

"My father was an alcoholic, which I'm sure you already figured that out. When I came back from Afghanistan the first time, he was worse. Much worse. Each time I came back…"

"Mum was a wreck, trying to keep after him, taking care of him, cleaning up whatever disasters he left behind him. He was draining the life out of both of them."

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, trying to picture the circumstances, trying to pay attention to John's telling rather than racing ahead with questions.

"When I got notice of my second tour, he went six days without being sober. Third tour was even worse. I could tell…"

Sherlock clutched John tighter as his voice faltered, his skin burning underneath Sherlock's touch. He had missed _all_ of this. How?

"It wasn't going to be much longer until Dad did something stupid and hurt himself… or someone else. And if that didn't happen, surely his liver wouldn't have lasted many more years. So I took out the life insurance policy."

"It was stupid. It was the least effective thing I could have done. But I wanted my Mum to… have an easier life after Dad was gone. Have enough money to fix the pieces of whatever he'd broken."

John's palm was sweaty against Sherlock's chest. "Mum's never forgiven me for not doing more, not when I could see what was going on, where things were headed. I didn't even bother going home between my third and fourth tours. I stayed in London with some mates."

"There was – "

"Nothing I could have done. I know. Logic doesn't stop guilt or blame or anger."

John was quiet, still, his thoughts circling inside his head.

"There must be something else. Some other reason your mother would blame you."

John's muscles tensed, strung tight against Sherlock's side, and his breath grew shallow before he drew a gulp of air, exhaling it loudly. "Mum usually went with him to the pub. She _hated_ it. But she took her knitting with her, and she was friends with some of the other ladies who were there. She never really complained about it, but I knew why she went, knew that she hated it. She was completely crap at keeping her emotions from showing."

Sherlock wondered if that was why John wore a mask so easily, determined to avoid his mother's shortcomings. John's expression _always_ went blank when he wanted to hide his response, as good a tell as any that he was upset, but not so incensed that he'd lost self-awareness.

"It was the week before I shipped out. And I talked Mum into spending one night, just _one_ night with me. I took her out to a play in Winchester."

"One of her favourite actors was in the play, some film star from the sixties, so I talked her into hanging out at the stage door. She got his autograph, and she was happy, Sherlock, she was so happy. I think it was her first night out doing something she liked in years, decades." John smiled against Sherlock's chest, despite the obvious pain the retelling was causing.

"And then we got home, late… after midnight. She'd expected Dad to be home by then. We searched on our own until two o'clock. We called the police and they found him at three thirty. He turned the wrong way coming home. Slipped and fell into a ditch. Slammed his head against a rock. He'd bled out by the time they found him."

The truth, merely the natural conclusion of a course of events. And yet all of this… context went along with something that clearly wasn't as simple as an unfortunate accident. It was something he'd never considered. Something John had always nagged him to consider.

John dragged his hand across his face, pulling away from Sherlock and flopping onto his back. "I filed the paperwork with the insurance company after the funeral, the day before I shipped out. I was a wreck. Nervous about going back. Exhausted from all of Dad's family coming in for the funeral. I'm sure I looked suspicious. I'd been having nightmares all that week. Hadn't slept properly."

John was silent, staring at the ceiling and blinking furiously. Sherlock's eyes widened, alarmed again that he hadn't noticed the clues pointing to something this significant in John's past. When John still didn't speak, Sherlock prompted, "And they began the inquiry after you shipped out."

John swallowed before nodding. "Yeah. It nearly ruined Mum. Harry was... not happy either."

"And this why you don't visit your mother? Surely she's stopped blaming you. Surely her life is better now that she doesn't have to chase after your father constantly."

"Oh, we Watsons seem to enjoy chasing after the people we love, saving them from themselves," John said, his voice cutting.

Sherlock had never felt the impact of a sentence physically before. But it struck him in the gut, making him wish he could double over to ease the hurt. He gaped at John.

Sherlock could see recognition flash across John's face. "Oh, God. That was awful. Ignore me. I'm just… drained, still a bit angry."

"I'm sorry… I…"

"Please, just forget I said it. Delete it? Of course you can't delete it." John hauled Sherlock into his arms, as if Sherlock were going to be the one to leave now. "I didn't mean it."

"You meant it, obviously. And it must be true," Sherlock said into John's shoulder. He felt ugly, damaged.

"Of course there's a bit of truth in it. I'd follow you anywhere, simply because you're you. But the reasons you have to be chased are _not_ the same at all. I don't have to chase you because you're trying to drown yourself… well, never figuratively."

Sherlock laughed. Despite everything this horrible day has wrought, John could still defuse a situation, still make both of them laugh.

His hand slid up John's back, curling against his neck. His lips against John's spelled out all the relief and trust and joy and grief – yes, grief for what John had had to endure, years ago and today – that Sherlock couldn't put words to. The kiss was as desperate as those that followed chases and knives and bomb-strapping maniacs, but lacked the surge of adrenaline that transmuted into arousal. It was just the two of them, just the press and slide of lips.

The kiss threatened to ignite, and one of them, both of them, pulled back.

They lay down again, closer than before, legs entwined.

"You never answered," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"About why you still don't get along with your mother."

"Asks the man who still has a childish feud with his older brother."

"I suppose you have a point…"

"There's just… too much history to overcome."

Sherlock nodded in understanding. "So is that enough, Sherlock? Are you satisfied now? Never going to bring this up again?"

He hesitated for a moment. He supposed he would always have questions about the details. It was possible someone _else_ had pushed Mr Watson, that it still wasn't a simple fall. But it seemed that would wreck John and his family even further. "It's enough."

Sherlock's mind lurched, attempting to manoeuvre around this wealth of new information. He'd never contemplated what it might be like to suffer through an investigation, an interrogation, even if one was wrongly accused.

He held John, fingers stroking through John's hair, thinking about all the things John hadn't said. It made sense now, why John had been so adrift when he came back. How John was a complete grouch before and after he met with his sister. How John yelled at Sherlock about the state of the flat for three days every time he got a drunken text from Harry.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or guilty that he'd forced John into talking about this. It was clear he'd never have done, otherwise. This enormous, traumatic part of John's past would have remained secreted away forever. Or would Sherlock have pieced together all the tiny pieces of evidence? Would he have ever bothered to look?

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Were you really going to let me get away with murder if you'd deduced that I'd done it?"

This time, Sherlock didn't need to consider his response. "Yes."

"Sherlock! That's… no!" John launched himself from Sherlock's arms, glaring down at him.

Sherlock bit back his first response. Though, really, John shouldn't ask questions he didn't want the answers to. Instead, he paused a moment and said, "I wasn't sure at first. But I couldn't… John, I don't think I could pursue Moriarty without you."

"Right, Moriarty. Of course it's Moriarty. It's _always_ Moriarty," John said with the same bitterness that always crept in when Sherlock mentioned him in any context that didn't involve hunting him down.

"It wasn't just Moriarty. It was other crimes as well."

John's eyes shuttered closed, and Sherlock knows he's explained this badly. "It wasn't just the crime solving either. I need you, John. I've never…nothing, no one has ever been more important than the truth. The truth is absolute. Used to be absolute."

John opened his eyes and stared at him. "You're genuinely bothered by that, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked away, staring at the stack of books on his chest of drawers. How on earth was he supposed to answer _that_? He looked at John again, his expression piercing. John would ferret the truth out of him, regardless. "Of course I am. It bothers me that I was prepared to make an exception for you. That I was willing to ignore facts for _feelings_."

John smirked at him.

"Oh, stop it. I know you think it's ridiculous that I'm so disdainful of feelings, but they get in the way of logic, of reason, of everything that my investigations depend on. Nothing is more important than truth. I happen to _enjoy_ the pursuit of the truth, but that doesn't undermine its importance."

John's smirk turned to a full-blown smile, and Sherlock was struck again with the warmth of John's regard for him. "You may have mentioned that before." He stretched, twisting his back. "Come on… I'm wrung out and sweaty and sticky and you probably need a shower too."

Sherlock blinked. They'd never shared a shower without it turning into a sexual encounter. But if that was what John wanted…

John interrupted his thoughts. "No. I just want a shower. I know we're not done talking about… what went wrong today – you should have just _talked_ to me, you know – but I'm knackered. I'm not sure you should be alone right now. I'm not sure I should be alone either. And I can't just lay here naked anymore." John climbed out of the bed and took three steps before stopping, hands on his hips, glaring Sherlock out of bed.

Sherlock considered arguing that if they were more open about the past, it wouldn't have happened either, but he was suddenly exhausted, the tension from the day pressing him down into the mattress. Besides, John would certainly demand that the openness be reciprocal. He crawled out despite his fatigue, his limbs protesting the idea so fiercely he nearly tripped his way to the bathroom.

John chuckled at him. "You know, you're the only person who could turn me _not_ having killed my father into a crisis of faith."

Sherlock stalked past him into the bathroom, turning on the tap. John leaned around him, adjusting the cold tap so the water, whenever it finally warmed, would be below scalding. He left Sherlock to grab flannels for both of them.

John returned, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist. "For all that everyone, including me, tells you how morally bankrupt you are, your unbending pursuit of the truth makes you one of the best men I've ever known. And you don't need to put me above it."

John kissed his shoulder and then stepped into the shower.

Sherlock stood outside the shower, choking on his breath and perhaps finally understanding how absolutely irreplaceable John Watson was, though he'd surely need reminding. By the time he entered the shower, the water had washed away the exhaustion etched into John's features. His worry lines had relaxed. His shoulders and back had unwound.

John was lathering his hair as he said, "I think I forget sometimes all the things I've learned in previous relationships, the experiences I've gained."

He ducked under the water to rinse. "I forget that you've never trusted anyone like this, how overwhelming it is to be in over your head the first time."

"The only time, John."

John smiled and let the spray of water swallow whatever response he had.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to AnnieTalbot, Christev, Misanthropyray, Machshefa, and Scoffy for helping me push this pinch hit across the finish line in record time.


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